the names of Robert Kennedy and Jesse Boyd were printed as
collaborators.

I shall never forget Uncle Jesse's face as I handed it to him. I came
away and left him reading it, oblivious to all else. All night the
light burned in his window, and I looked out across the sands to it
and pictured the delight of the old man poring over the printed pages
whereon his own life was portrayed. I wondered how he would like the
ending--the ending I had suggested. I was never to know.

After breakfast I went over to Uncle Jesse's house, taking some little
delicacy Mother had cooked for him. It was an exquisite morning, full
of delicate spring tints and sounds. The harbour was sparkling and
dimpling like a girl, the winds were playing hide and seek roguishly
among the stunted firs, and the silver-flashing gulls were soaring
over the bar. Beyond the Gate was a shining, wonderful sea.

When I reached the little house on the point I saw the lamp still
burning wanly in the window. A quick alarm struck at my heart. Without
waiting to knock, I lifted the latch, and entered.

Uncle Jesse was lying on the old sofa by the window, with the book
clasped to his heart. His eyes were closed and on his face was a look
of the most perfect peace and happiness--the look of one who has long
sought and found at last.

We could not know at what hour he had died, but somehow I think he had
his wish and went out when the morning came in through the Golden
Gate. Out on that shining tide his spirit drifted, over the sunrise
sea of pearl and silver, to the haven where lost Margaret waited
beyond the storms and calms.

The Little Black Doll

Everybody in the Marshall household was excited on the evening of the
concert at the Harbour Light Hotel--everybody, even to Little Joyce,
who couldn't go to the concert because there wasn't anybody else to
stay with Denise. Perhaps Denise was the most excited of them
all--Denise, who was slowly dying of consumption in the Marshall
kitchen chamber because there was no other place in the world for her
to die in, or anybody to trouble about her. Mrs. Roderick Marshall
thought it very good of herself to do so much for Denise. To be sure,
Denise was not much bother, and Little Joyce did most of the waiting
on her.

At the tea table nothing was talked of but the concert; for was not
Madame Laurin, the great French Canadian prima donna, at the hotel,
and was she not going to sing? It was the opportunity of a
li